The Wrath of the Unchained

The hull groaned as the merchant vessel sliced through the swell, heading south, toward the Nuri coastline. Musyoka stood at the bow, arms crossed, cloak flapping in the salty wind. The sea had become a second home to him—a place of observation, of gathering truths too dangerous to speak aloud.

He remembered the first time they docked at the Red Sea port now bustling behind him. A small place nestled in the arid coastline of what modern men called Egypt. The air was thick with incense and cruelty.

The market was nestled behind the harbor wall, concealed from the front-facing docks by high sandstone buildings. But once inside, the rot hit your nose.

Men and women stood in lines, necks bound with iron or rope, eyes sunken from thirst and fear. The heat of the desert sun seared their backs, but no one cried out anymore. They had cried long ago. The ones from Nubia were the most recent—tall, proud-boned people, covered in dust. They spoke a language sharp and rhythmic, foreign to Musyoka’s ears.

"Khisa would probably know it," he thought bitterly.

There were others too—Amazigh from the west, some from the mountains of Algeria, even a few pale-skinned captives from the Balkans. Men with money walked slowly through the rows, prodding, inspecting. A boy no older than ten was forced to show his teeth, then struck when he flinched.

Musyoka turned away.

----

Naparye, a young girl from Nubia.

The sand got everywhere. In her eyes, her nose, her mouth. She had not tasted water in two days. The man beside her had tried to run. They made her watch as they cut off his fingers one by one. She whispered prayers in her grandmother’s tongue—words even she didn’t fully understand. At night, she dreamed of a river. Wide and blue. A place where no one wore chains. But every time she reached the water, a shadow pulled her back.

A tall man in dark robes walked past the line. He said nothing. His skin was the same tone as hers, but his eyes were distant—measuring. Just another buyer, she thought.